19

Speaking of music and rhythms, it’s Carnival Sunday and what should be dub shaking your bones is the muffled roar of rain. It comes as warned, steady and light. She had already made her decision to seek alternative arrangements, but it doesn’t hurt to lament.

‘The one day in the year when I just want to turn up, and dance, and have ­fun – and we get this,’ she says, signalling the spit falling from the dirty grey sky. Thunder crackles, like the distant rumble of a giant’s stomach, and she sighs, the short whoosh joining nature’s sounds.

The night before, you had been sitting on her sofa, when she made the declaration.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ you said.

‘Why not?’

‘I just . . . it’s quite sudden.’

‘But I want to. Come on, come help me.’

In the bathroom, you laugh and giggle as she wets her hair, flattening the curls with water. You don a glove and help ease the dye across her soft scalp, once, twice, until the desired colour is reached. She is going from dark to blonde, spreading chemicals as one does in a darkroom, to encourage an image to emerge from celluloid. The beauty of shooting on film is in the unexpected. You don’t know what will appear out of the development process. You are doing the same here, the bleach on her dark roots producing a glow like sunshine at golden hour. When you settle in bed for the night, you run your hand through her yellow curls, and she murmurs towards slumber.

‘This feels good,’ she says. ‘This has felt good. I’ve enjoyed this summer together.’

‘It’s not over yet,’ you say, but she’s already asleep.

Carnival Sunday. Bits and pieces like a film strip: walking through puddles on Rye Lane, determined to find a space where she would feel safe. Peering into the barbershop, doing a walk by. Holding her by the underside of your forearms. It will be OK, you tell her, not because she’s nervous, but because you believe it. Inside, waiting for a chair to become free. A measure of rum to ease the jitters. ‘Is that your boyfriend?’ The answer is too complex: when you have the words to explain, they will still feel inadequate. ‘I won’t hurt her,’ the barber says, noticing how you eye him as the razor glides across her scalp. You hear the conversation and know she has found another place to feel comfortable. Two dots of blood on her forehead as he lines her up. You both promise to return. It doesn’t feel empty.

Carnival Sunday. You’re scraping the plate with your forks. Leftovers from the day before, rice and peas, jerk chicken, the meat slipping from the bone.

‘I have to go soon,’ you say. ‘You still heading out?’

‘I think so,’ she says, suppressing a yawn. ‘We’re taking a nap,’ she says, leaving the room.

In her bedroom, you clamber into bed, pull the duvet over yourself, suddenly tired.

‘Wait,’ she says.

‘What?’

She giggles. ‘Did you really think we were taking a nap?’

Carnival Sunday. You return later that night after leaving her house for a few hours. Kick off your shoes without undoing the laces. She’s where you left her, in bed, the grin still traced on her lips, her words still echoing pleasantly, like laughter: ‘Did you really think we would take a nap?’

It’s night now, and the rain has stopped. You describe the party you left her for and wonder about the enormous street party you didn’t make it to.

‘There’s always next year.’

She nods, settling into the folds of her duvet. You wrap your arms around her, letting them linger, comforted by her warmth. Her curves and juts are familiar. The shape of her recognizable, even with the newly cropped blonde hair. She smells like her, which is a ­cop-­out, really, but if pushed, you would say she smells like a place you call home.